Since he was born, I’ve always wondered what Boo will be when he grows up. Sure, he’s only two, but at this point in his young life, I’m pretty sure he’s on track to do something brilliant.
In the grand tradition of wishful thinking, I like to daydream about him becoming a Nobel Prize winning biochemist who discovers the cure to Alzheimer’s or something like that. (Because y’all, the boat’s done sailed on that one for me.) Or he could take a leaf out of his mother’s (somewhat limited) book, take up creative writing, and become the next James Patterson.
Or… Or! He could be some kind of famous that requires, I dunno, a manager or something. Then I’d have to sign up to do that job, and that would make me a momager. But I wouldn’t be the money-hungry kind. I’d be there to make sure his ridiculous rider demands were met. (Four vats of colored Goldfish crackers, one swimming pool filled with spaghetti, and four different varieties of Juicy Juice? Your wish is my command, good sir.) And you know, take advantage of the comped spa services of at all the hotels. Because a girl’s gotta live, right?
Regardless of the path he chooses, I just want him to be happy.
In related news…
Today, I think I caught a glimpse of the future while my mom and I were shopping with Boo. Ever since I can remember, my family has made it a point to hit up Sam’s on Saturdays because that’s when the aisles are packed with vendors giving away samples. In college, I’d go with my boyfriend (the same guy from the Dumbest Thing I Ever Did) and his three roommates and we’d make a meal out of it. Those boys could lay waste to a sample platter faster than starving polar bears let loose in the Bronx zoo penguin house.
Even though the three of us had eaten lunch at a Chinese restaurant not even an hour earlier, Boo wanted to try the samples. And when I say he wanted samples, I mean he threw a little hissy fit until my mom steered the cart to the mob around the chicken nugget stand. I was very proud when he told the ridiculously chipper nugget-pusher, “Thank you!” around a mouthful of reconstituted chicken parts.
But chicken nuggets are like Pringles, and you can’t just eat one. So we casually strolled over to the booth, took another nugget, and walked away before anyone could accuse us of being greedy sample stealers. (I’ve always had this vision of being dragged from the store flailing and screaming because I took more than one lousy piece of microwaveable General Tsao’s Chicken. Don’t judge.)
Before we were even five feet away, Boo leaned around my mom and looked back at the nuggeteer and said–in the loudest possible stage voice EVER–“Another chickie? THANK YOU!”
So yeah, a career in espionage is probably not going to work out for my kid. Perhaps he should look into something that requires a little less discretion. Like being an attorney.
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